Right Wing Nut House

I feel obligated to warn you not to read this post if you have just eaten. That’s because swimming in this pool of sickly sweet, syrupy slop written by Politico’s Roger Simon may give you cramps - or cause you to blow your lunch:

Looking into Bill Clinton’s eyes is like falling into a swimming pool.

His eyes are deep and blue and comforting and, as person after person will tell you, when his eyes lock onto yours, you feel like you are the only other person in the world.

Margarida Perreira, 48, of Manchester, N.H., can stand it no longer.

“Can I give you a kiss?” she asks him.

“Sure you can,” he says.

She hugs him fiercely.

Holy Christ! If the guy got any gushier, he’d have to register himself as an off shore oil well.

It gets worse:

Somewhere around here, his wife, the junior senator from New York, is campaigning for president. They started out at the fair together, but she has her pace and he has his.

They both have entourages: staff, Secret Service, local police, press. But Bill wanders freely, never letting anybody really get between him and the crowds. Most politicians like serving far more than they like campaigning, but Bill Clinton loved doing both.

“He wanted to win the voters one by one,” his former spokesman, Mike McCurry, once told me. “He would have gone to all 250 million of them if we could have figured out a way to do it.”

I think that Politico should put a warning label on this guy’s columns: “Reading this column may be hazardous to your gastro-intestinal tract.”

Or maybe they should simply supply free barf bags with each subscription:

Whenever there are groups of children, Clinton bends down so their parents can get a picture of them with the former president. Whenever he sees people in wheelchairs who cannot get through the crowd to him, Clinton moves through the crowd to them.

Many people are too nervous or excited to initiate a conversation, but they soon learn that is not necessary.

“Where are you from?” Clinton asks a woman.

“Cologne,” she replies.

It is like turning on a switch. “Beautiful town,” he says. “I have been there many times. The first time was December 1969. I crossed the Rhine at midnight and walked up the hill to the cathedral. It was breathtaking. You must be so proud of it.”

Is there a hackneyed political cliche this guy has missed? Clinton loves children. Clinton showing off his smarts. Clinton, the rock star. Clinton, the kindly.

What’s next? Clinton as - dare I say it - God?

He talks about pumpkins and watermelons — are you surprised that he knows about pumpkins and watermelons? — and how these competition fruits cannot have any holes or breaks in the skin.

“It’s seeds plus soil plus care,” he says. “Too much water and the skin breaks and you are eliminated. Use too little, and somebody beats you. It is about constant judgment. Like the presidency. Make it as big as you can without breaking the skin.”

I guess there wasn’t a lake nearby where he could walk on water but perhaps we can petition to have the above added to the bible.

“The Parable of the Mustard Seed.” Big things come in small packages.

“The Parable of the Prodigal Son.” Lost sheep are best.

“The Parable of the Pumpkins and Watermelons!” And Clinton said: “Thou shalt not break the skin of thy watermelon lest thou presidential judgement be tainted like bad water .”

Inspiring, yes?

I can’t recall ever reading such drivel on a serious political website. If this is a parody then I admit to being taken in. But it’s not. The writer is dead serious.

I’m actually jealous. Simon is getting paid to write this stuff? Give me a shot and I’ll write the most glowing and adoring piece on Bush you ever saw. By the time I was finished with him, there’s be a movement to canonize him. I would write things that would make you think someone had sprayed cotton candy all over you, so lovable I could make him.

But then, if I did that I would lose all credibility as a serious writer - something Roger Simon should know after this piece of sybaritic claptrap that Politico should be ashamed of publishing.